


Wash Away

by sorcerysupremes



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-21 04:37:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8222237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorcerysupremes/pseuds/sorcerysupremes
Summary: When they returned from Haven, he could tell that something was not right...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the "Chores" Pint-sized Prompt by [Atojiso](https://www.reddit.com/user/Atojiso) on reddit.  
> This was supposed to be 100 words and fun, but wound up 770 words and sad. But I still like it, and I hope you enjoy it as well.

When they returned from Haven, he could tell that something was not right.

The Herald had left for the Hinterlands fueled by fire, which had since dissipated now that she was back, but she seemed smaller now, meeker even. When he greeted her upon her return, she looked past him, hadn’t said a word. The others spoke of helping refugees, boasted about fighting apostates, and in Varric’s case, about slaughtering bandits in gruesome detail, but the Herald stood silent with glassy eyes.

He broached the subject with Cassandra, who shook her head and deflected his question.

“The journey was long, and this is not an easy war to win.”

“She’s just a kid,” Varric explained in a hushed whisper, glancing at the Herald as she sat in front of a fire, her eyes wide as she watched the flames. “And she’s seen some shit.”

In the glow of the fire, she looked sallow with big purplish bags beneath her eyes, her body trembling against the Fereldan cold.

Even after everyone else had retreated to their tents, the Herald stayed, long after she snuffed out the flame.

>>>

The next time Cullen saw her, she was wearing only her knickers in the freezing river water at Haven’s edge, her fingers furiously scrubbing her tunic, her nails scraping against the fabric to remove a spattered red stain. Her arms splashed against the water as she moved, shooting up a spray of ice water with each motion.

His gaze lingered on her figure for far longer than was appropriate—in a mix of admiration and pity; in normal circumstances, he would have already shielded his eyes and turned away in an embarrassed blush.

But these weren’t normal circumstances. He hadn’t known the Herald very long, but it was enough to know that much.

His boot kicked against the riverbed as he stepped towards her, and she jumped at the noise, turning to him frozen with wide nug-eyes. She was shivering now, like the cold hit her all at once, and her lips were a deep blue, matching her Dalish markings. Though he was afraid to frighten her, afraid that she’d run, he took another step forward, his hand outstretched in her direction.

He didn’t know what to call her. ‘Herald’ seemed stiff and ceremonial; ‘Lavellan,’ or any combination thereof, not enough so. Instead, he said nothing.

Her eyes unmoving from him as he inched closer again, she dropped the tunic into the water and let it float there, untethered by her hand. At this point, the waterline had passed Cullen’s boots, and he tried to ignore the chill rush it sent through his body. Sweet Maker, how did she manage to stand there practically naked?

“Are you all right?” he finally asked and abandoned all pretense.

At first, she looked as if she was going to nod, but she stopped suddenly, and she choked out a few undecipherable syllables.

Cullen repeated his question, and the Herald straightened, her voice strong through chattering teeth as she said, “Garas quenathra?”

“I’m… sorry,” Cullen stuttered, trying not to shiver, himself. “I don’t speak—”

She provided the translation for him: “What are you doing here?”

Cullen ran his hand through his hair, surprising himself with how cold and wet it was. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. When you got back from the Hinterlands—”

The Herald let out a small squeak and nearly collapsed upon herself, tears suddenly running down her face in cascades. She began to howl, and the sound of it was haunting to him.

“You should come out from the water now,” he said, his voice soft. “It’s far too cold to be… like this.”

She turned from him to look back at the floating tunic, still smattered with blood. “But _they_ are still there.”

“Who?”

“The apostates! The bandits! Templars! Any of whom could have been my brothers!” She whipped herself back around to face him again, the movement splashing water against his cloak. “Or yours.”

He was taken aback by her outburst, though from distant memory he could understand.

She sighed, filling the echoing silence before it could grow. “Killing does not come naturally to me.”

“Nor should it,” he answered with a sad smile. Again, he stretched his hand out to her, and this time she took it, wrapping her pruny fingers around his. When she came closer, he drew off his cloak and draped it over her shoulders as he walked her back to the village. Though the fur was wet and cold, he hoped it could provide her with some warmth and protection.

Maker knows she’ll need it.


End file.
